


In Fugue

by umbrafix



Series: Things that ought to have been in the series but were tragically left out [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of missing scenes from episode 1.2, Fugue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Morse falls asleep at the wheel. Because we skip straight from Morse dozing off and Thursday telling him to pull over to them arriving at Thursday's house. Surely there was a conversation in there?

“When’d you last get any sleep?” Thursday growled. “Pull over!”

 

Still trying to process the swerve through fuzzy thoughts, Morse cleared his throat and forced himself to focus. “I’m fine, sir. Won’t happen again.” He kept his eyes trained on the road, and tried not to think about the fact he’d apparently almost ploughed them both into the pavement.

 

“Damn right it won’t. Now pull over.” The inspector’s voice was angry and firm. Morse wasn’t sure he had the energy to argue further; his eyelids were heavy and it was hard to keep them open.

 

He brought the jag to a stop at the side of the road, and stared fixedly at his hands on the wheel.

 

“I’ll take over driving, I think,” Thursday said grimly. “Out you get.”

 

The wound on his side pulled as Morse levered himself out of the car, a constant reminder of his late night adventure in the stacks. He placed a hand over it for a moment and steadied himself against the door. Thursday came to a halt beside him.

 

“Alright, Morse?” he asked quietly.

 

“Yes, sir. Just-“ Morse smiled tightly, and then pushed off the car to walk around to the other side. They both got in; Morse easing himself carefully sideways and then sinking into the soft seat with a sigh. Thursday made no move to start the car. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t ever it again. If you aren’t in a state to drive, then don’t pretend you are.” Thursday turned and eyed him for a moment. “What did DeBryn say when he saw you?”

 

“Oh, he said I would be fine. A clean cut.” Morse crossed his arms across his chest and looked away.

 

“Did he now? What else did he say?”

 

 Morse shook his head slightly. “We should look at where Cronyn was getting the morphine from, maybe-“

 

“Morse.” Thursday cut him off mid-sentence. Tiredly rubbing his eyes, Morse considered what to say. It wasn’t as though the inspector couldn’t just ask Dr DeBryn as soon as he saw him, so lying probably wouldn’t do him much good.

 

“Said I should get some rest,” he admitted finally.

 

“Hardly surprising. And you were up all night.” Thursday sighed.

 

“But we have to figure out-“

 

“No, _you_ don’t have to figure out anything. Not if you’re at the point of falling asleep at the wheel and nearly getting the both of us killed.” Morse snapped his mouth shut, guilt biting into him.

 

“I really am sorry, sir,” he said again after a moment.

 

“Yes, yes,” Thursday said brusquely, “We’ve covered that. Now, what are we going to do about it?”

 

“You could drop me back at the station,” Morse began.

 

Thursday shook his head, however. “I’ve got a better idea,” the DI said, and put the car into gear.


	2. At the Thursdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after Morse woke up and stumbled through to the dining room? Surely they didn't just sprint out of the door?

Thursday came and stood in the doorway to the dining room, and tilted his head towards the hall. He had a serious look on his face quite different to the one he’d had a few minutes before, when he had been relaxing with his family. Morse stood, straightening his jacket, and nodded politely at Sam and Joan. He passed Mrs Thursday as she came back in with a plate of food, and his footsteps slowed without his permission. It smelled amazing, and Morse’s stomach growled loudly.

 

“Here, love, I’ve warmed up some stew for you,” she said, and put it on the table at the spot he’d just vacated. Morse wavered for the briefest second, looking back at it longingly, but Thursday cleared his throat.

 

“Just give us a minute, Win.”

 

In the hallway, Morse tugged his coat off the stand, preparing to head out. Thursday stood watching him, making no move towards his own things. “Miss Frazil?” Morse asked.

 

“Yes, says she’s got some information for us regarding the case. Something similar she’s heard of before, she said.”

 

“Where are we meeting her?”

 

“At her office.”

 

As he went to pull the coat on, Morse winced as the motion pulled again at his side. With one arm in the sleeve, he paused to regroup and wonder how on earth he was going to get the other one in. The problem was solved for him when the coat was gently tugged off his arm, and hung back on the peg.

 

“It will wait long enough for you to have your tea, Morse, she’s not going anywhere.”

 

“But-“

 

“Sit down,” Thursday said adamantly. “Or I’ll set the missus on you.”

 

The stew was excellent. The family carried on talking around him, the kids planning their week and teasing each other, and the DI and his wife exchanging fond looks across the table. A warm feeling settled in Morse’s stomach which wasn’t entirely due to the food.

 

“Thank you, Mrs Thursday, that was wonderful,” he said as he finished.

 

“There’s more if you’d like it?” She smiled at him as she came to collect his plate.

 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. But, thank you.” Morse hesitated. “Can I help with the washing up?”

 

“Don’t you worry yourself, I know you and Fred have business. It was a pleasure having you here for the afternoon.” Morse felt his cheeks redden, and ducked his head. He and Inspector Thursday got up from the table, but as they left the room Thursday steered him towards the stairs rather than the hall stand.

 

“Sir?” he asked, confused.

 

“We’ve got clean dressings in the bathroom upstairs, let’s get you fixed up first, hmm?”

 

“Dressings?” It wasn’t until he was leaning against the bathroom counter with his jacket shrugged off that Morse saw the red stain on the shirt he was wearing. “Jakes is going to kill me.”

 

Thursday gave a little tug on the bottom of Morse’s shirt, then left him to untuck it and pull it up as the DI rummaged in one of the cabinets over the sink.

 

“Been a little while since Win had to do this for me, but we’ve still got all the bits.” Thursday paused for a moment. “She’d probably be better at this than me, but I thought you might not want-”

 

“No, sir,” said Morse hurriedly, horrified at the thought of Mrs Thursday being the one in here with him. “Actually, I’m sure I can…” He dropped the edge of his shirt, and reached out to take the bandage from his DI.

 

“Just stop, lad,” Thursday said wearily, and Morse did, freezing in place. The man regarded him intently for a moment, obviously waiting for further argument. Morse fidgeted slightly, but said nothing. “Alright then. Lift your shirt up.”

 

Morse stared at the far wall while Thursday cleaned and dressed the wound. Thursday’s hands were gentle and sure, and, though it still stung, it didn’t hurt as much now as when Dr. DeBryn had stitched it the night before.

 

“Nasty wound, that.” Thursday tidied away the leavings, and Morse tucked his shirt back into his trousers. “You be careful not to make it worse, or I’ll enforce the bed rest that I’m sure the doctor prescribed.” He gave Morse a knowing look.

 

“Yes, sir.” The corner of Morse’s mouth turned up involuntarily in a not-quite smile.

 

“And bring that shirt back here when you’re done, we’ll see if we can’t get it clean for you.”

 

This time, when Morse opened his mouth to argue, he shut it again without Thursday having to say a word.  

 


	3. After the roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, at the end of the episode, an overly dramatic coda. Because Morse does a lot of rolling around for someone who’s been stabbed, and I can’t help milking the situation.

Fred Thursday paused as he reached the door to the roof, and turned to gaze back at his bagman. No, not his bagman – and he was still feeling a whole world of frustration over that. Morse stood with his head slightly tipped back, looking like an angelic sculpture of some kind as he watched over Oxford. Thursday blinked, and the bizarre image was dispelled as Morse started to move slowly in his direction. Thursday waited patiently.

 

Once Morse had covered about half of the distance, walking slowly had transformed into barely concealed limping. By the time he caught up with Thursday, there was a grimace of pain on his face. Thursday bit back the words he wanted to say – the lad had a lot of pride, and could only be pushed so far. He’d get DeBryn to look at him when they got back.

 

“I could do without any more rooftop adventures for a while,” Fred said conversationally as they walked through the door and started down the wooden ladder which had been the final step to the roof. He could also do without any more ladders. Or stairs. Or maniacs trying to kill him based on the first letter of his name.

 

Morse didn’t reply, but then just climbing down the ladder seemed to be occupying all of his attention. Fred reached the bottom when the lad was about halfway down, took a moment to dust himself off, and started towards the old staircase.

 

Behind him there was a muffled cry, and a loud thump. He turned, heart in mouth, to find Morse crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the ladder. The lad couldn’t have fallen far, he must have only been a few rungs up. But he wasn’t getting up.

 

Fred strode quickly to his side, bending to try and get a better look. Morse resisted, curling into a tight ball and wheezing slightly. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

 

“Morse. Morse?”

 

“Just… winded…” Morse gasped out.

 

Fred rocked back onto his heels and sighed in relief. “I swear, Morse, you’re trying to give me a heart attack on purpose. You have to be the most troublesome bagman I’ve ever had.” He caught a glimpse of Morse’s eyes as the lad tilted his head towards him, and the expression in them made his chest ache a little. Thursday promised himself that, when it was just the two of them, he’d allow himself to call Morse his bagman more often, general duties or no.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Morse croaked out. Fred rested a hand on the lad’s back absentmindedly, and sat quietly with him while his breathing evened out. Gradually Morse unfurled himself, and made to sit up.

 

“What happened, anyway? Don’t get on well with ladders, do you?” Thursday held out a hand, and Morse allowed himself to be pulled up. He hissed and doubled over as soon as he was upright, however. “Alright, lad, enough’s enough. I saw you limping a minute ago; I don’t want you falling down the staircase as well as the ladder. Is it your side?”

 

Morse nodded, one of his hands clamped to his side over his jacket. “I think… When I was struggling with Cronyn… I might have…” His words were shaky, and he looked a bit like he might fall over at any minute.

 

“Ripped your bloody stitches, have you?” said Thursday, annoyed. “Of course you bloody have.”

 

“Well, you said I was troublesome, sir.” Thursday couldn’t even tell if he was joking or not, the lad was always too serious.

 

“Let’s have a look, then.” Thursday quickly and efficiently unbuttoned Morse’s jacket, and pulled the left side back. “Morse,” he said, alarmed. When he looked up at the lad’s face, he was too pale. “Sit down again, now, and hold this to your side.” Fred quickly pulled off his own jacket, and pressed it against the slowly spreading red patch on Morse’s shirt. Morse made a quiet, choked noise, and sat obediently still. Just for once, Thursday wouldn’t have minded him arguing – an obedient Morse was very disquieting.

 

“I need some help here,” Thursday yelled down the stairs. “Man down, I need help.” He waited a moment, and then called again. When he got a faint answering shout from downstairs, he moved swiftly back to Morse.

 

Morse had tried valiantly to keep pressure on the wound, but his hand was falling away by the time Fred knelt beside him. “Morse?” The lad’s head had tipped back to rest against the wall he was leaning on, his eyes closed but moving rapidly behind the lids. “Stay with me Morse, if I have to sit here worrying then the least you could do is keep me company. Morse. _Morse_.”

 

The lad’s eyes opened, just a slit, and he lifted his head a little. “Sir?”

 

“I’m putting you on bed rest for a week after this stunt,” Thursday growled. “No, two weeks.”

 

“That’s right, sir, give me a reason to live,” Morse said drowsily.

 

That had definitely been a joke. “Enough of your cheek, constable, you’re in proper trouble you are.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“My Win will be most severely displeased. I promised her I’d keep an eye on you.”

 

“Sir.” Morse seemed to lose the ability to hold his head upright, and it rolled onto his right shoulder. It didn’t look comfortable. Thursday cupped a hand behind the lad’s neck, and tried to support him a bit. He pressed down harder on Morse’s side with his other hand, drawing a pained grunt from him.

 

“Just hold on, lad, just hold on.”

 

Two coppers appeared at the top of the stairs, panting and out of breath. “Stretcher’s coming, sir.”

 

“Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

 

Thursday didn’t release his hold on Morse until he was loaded onto the stretcher and one of the bearers gently pulled his hands away. “Christ,” Thursday murmured thickly, staring down at the smears of blood on his hands.

 

How do you leave it at the front door, Morse had asked him. This one would be more difficult than most, Fred thought to himself.


End file.
